


Just Another Ring Rat

by char1ie_writes



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: F/M, Monday Night Raw - Freeform, Original Character(s), Pro wrestling - Freeform, WWE - Freeform, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 16:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15799866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/char1ie_writes/pseuds/char1ie_writes
Summary: ring-rat. (professional wrestling, slang) A promiscuous person, often a young female, who attends professional wrestling events primarily to seek sexual liaisons with wrestlers and other performers. - A first-person account of a heated romance, misplaced rumors, and the dirty world of professional wrestling. {Seth Rollins/Own Character}





	Just Another Ring Rat

**Author's Note:**

> The first upload I've done in a while, something a little different. I'm going to try and make this as accurate and believable as possible! 
> 
> If you like Seth Rollins and his abs, then this is the fanfic for you. It'll get pretty sex/kink heavy the further on it goes, so sit back, and enjoy!
> 
> Writers note: I have a chronic health condition, updates may be slow!

**Just Another Ring Rat**

****~** **

**CHAPTER 1 - WORKPLACE RELATIONS**

_Scotiabank Arena in Toronto, ON_

 

I checked my watch, idly swinging my feet and trying desperately to tune out the deafening roar of noise around me. Just over four hours till showtime. There was a constant motion from every direction, lighting and sound techs, wrestlers, producers, managers and hair and makeup flying by in a flurry of brushes and hairspray and I couldn’t help but cough as the cloud descended upon me. 

 

I let them fuss, we all needed to do something to fill the time. Suddenly they left as quickly as they came and I wrinkled my nose at the bitter smell creeping into my senses. I almost yearned for the stale leather & sweat combo of my wrestling school - at least that was familiar. Just to clarify - I’m a trained wrestler, but that’s not why I’m here, backstage at Monday Night Raw. 

 

A spinal injury three years ago struck me off the wrestling card, and whilst I’m an accomplished ring announcer on the independent circuit, I didn’t want to rob JoJo of a job she so adores, so instead, I’m here. I went back to school and trained for three years in physiotherapy & massage, and for a company that relies solely on their performers committing muscular suicide, I am a precious commodity. 

 

Yes, that means I get to lay oiled, gentle hands across the rippling muscles of the superstars, but I promise that’s not my sole reason for employment. I play an important role, as does everyone here and I treat injuries, provide relief from pain & occasionally play relationship/family/life counselor - it’s all part of the job description. 

 

The alarm went off on my wrist, indicating my shift was about to start. Begrudgingly I pushed myself off the WWE branded case-on-wheels, passing smiles, handshakes, and waves to the faces I recognised. Every back-stage was different, every venue a new maze for me to navigate and I knew I was going to get lost. Despite the frankly _gigantic_ signs plastered on the walls… I got lost. Turning another unknown corner, my short-sighted eyes strained to see the distant sign when my vision was interrupted by a familiar face. 

 

Seth Rollins bobbed his face into my field of vision, his eyes creased with amusement at my obvious predicament. I jumped a little as I focused on his features, his mere presence always caught me off-guard, let alone this. He made my mouth dry, my heart rate quicken and I swear I could feel my pupils dilating. Along with that…that scent he carried made my head feel fuzzy. I had a crush on him. That was…definitely certain. However, the unprofessionalism of those feelings was far too nauseating to contemplate and my confusion quickly shifted to irritation. I scowled, stepping away from him, deliberately making space between us.

 

“Lost again eh?” The tone came with a lazy smile and whilst Iowa carried no specific accent, his Midwestern voice was distinctive to everyone in the company. It was deep, warm and sharp, a stark contrast against my clean, upper-class English accent, I forever stuck out as a stark product of privately funded education. Another bug-bear of mine since joining the company. There are no secrets in the locker room. 

 

I huffed, folding my arms like a pouting child, desperately trying to avoid his rich brown eyes. I shrugged my shoulders, eyes burning into the floor, my scowl deepening as his foot moved forward to lessen the space between us. Finally, I looked at him, and deeply, _truly_ wished I hadn’t. His shoulder length hair was tied up in a messy bun, his beard freshly trimmed, his skin tanned, the t-shirt he wore, ‘ _Burn It Down!_ ’ slightly warped by the intensity and curve of his muscles. Everything about him was enticing, he was the epitome of the ‘bad boy’ aesthetic I craved. He was all of the tall, dark and handsome I could never have.

 

I made myself one promise when I joined the wrestling business. Young women who sleep with wrestlers and are found out are often called ‘ **Ring Rats** ’ - I had no wish for that name to tarnish my hard-earned reputation as a dedicated and talented worker, no matter how delicious he was. 

 

A gentle fist knocked my shoulder, rousing me from my thoughts; “Your room is just down that hall…” 

 

I stared incredulously at his hand, as if questioning why he _dared_ to touch me and to prove that he didn’t make me a complete weakling, I grabbed his hand with both of mine, stepped one foot out to the side and twisted his wrist the wrong way round, ‘locking’ it in position. A wrestler’s bread and butter, the wrist lock, but it was effective. He winced, I’d deliberately tugged as I’d twisted, pulling at his tendons, putting excess strain on his wrist joint. 

 

“Thanks for the help _Colby_ , you’ve been a real star.” I grinned, my biggest showgirl smile, well aware of his distaste for his real name being used. But, my victory was short-lived, my arms slowly beginning to buckle as he easily started to break my hold as I desperately tried to maintain the facade that I wasn’t finding this hard. He was a hell of a lot stronger than I was, and he countered me easily. He twisted his arm back around, breaking the strength in my elbows, using my own body weight to turn my body into his, pinning my aggressing arm against my torso, his free arm wrapping around my throat, my neck trapped between his bicep and his forearm. I felt the pressure begin to increase as his muscles contracted. A sleeper hold. Applied correctly, a wrestler can be unconscious within a matter of seconds. 

 

Wrestlers wrestled each other. Anytime, any place, you didn’t even need someone to make the bell noise - so this was normal, for everyone. But did he know? Did he see the effect he has? Seth had never looked at me twice, we’d followed the same casual work relationship path everyone walked here, occasionally I touched his half-naked body, but it was a job and a profession. But, like an old friend had once said, you can’t help the way this business makes you feel about people. But did he feel the same about me?

 

Heat flooded my body, in all the wrong places. This was unfair. This was incredibly unfair. If we were not stood on concrete, I’d have elbowed him in the ribs, folded my body and thrown him over, arse over tit. However, my job was to preserve the wrestlers, not cause them more injury. So I submitted, this was only rough and tumble after all - right? I felt the tension increase inside my skull, blood throbbing in my ears as my hands weakly clawed at his skin. I felt him chuckle, the sound reverberating through our bodies and I shuddered. To him, this was probably just a game. To me? The eternal submissive, this was my wet dream. Thankfully our bizarre flirt-fight was interrupted by your friendly-neighborhood Samoan calling Seth, and as soon as Roman shouted Seth’s name, his grip around my neck was released and I took a sharp breath of air, struggling to balance as the rush of oxygen-rich blood poured into my limbs. 

 

Seth stepped away from me, graciously raising his arms and bowing, the same shit-eating grin from before plastered across his irritatingly handsome features; “Could do better Foster, could do better.” 

 

I lifted my chin out of insolence, eyes defiant. I supposed it was only fair, I hated people using my last name as much as he hated his real name. We were even once more. I vaguely heard Roman say something about it being inappropriate to wrestle the staff as the pair walked away and I reluctantly turned myself around, finding my treatment room in a few steps. 

 

I rushed inside, swiftly shutting the door behind me, finally drowning out the never-ending roar of the production teams echoing across concrete walls and floors that had continued, droning on in the background. I sunk against the door, finally able to catch my breath, able to _breathe_. My hands were trembling, my skin was burning and for the first time in a long time, I felt out of control. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut as I felt a headache blossom behind my eyes. I couldn’t let this happen. He could have anyone he wanted, every woman in that locker room, superstar or crew would fall at his feet, so why did it have to be me? I didn’t know how he felt, I watched him be playful and flirtatious with everyone else, so why was I so consumed by feelings and sensations I doubted would ever be reciprocated? 

 

As I grabbed a bottle of aspirin from my bag, the knock on my door brought with it composure and a face I was always pleased to see. I called for my first patient to come in, and as the door swung open I smiled; The Lunatic Fringe, Dean Ambrose stood in the entrance way, his long, floppy mop now exchanged for a buzzcut, his muscle to human being ration greatly outweighed, yet still he wore the sunglasses, that telltale sign of a hangover. A throaty rasp greeted me, a somewhat crumpled piece of paper in his hand outstretched to me as he rubbed his short hair with a free hand, a habit from when it was longer. 

 

“Afternoon…” despite being delivered with a smile, his words were slow and deliberate, his brain cells still slightly tainted with expensive whiskey; “…doc says you need to check me over.”

 

I stifled a playful laugh, nodded and gestured at the table, glad to interact with a different face and forget what happened moments earlier. 

 

“So Dean, tell me how you’ve been this week?”


End file.
